


No Explanation for Separation

by Evenseven



Category: Fargo (TV)
Genre: Brother/Brother Incest, Canon Compliant, I Don't Even Know, Implied Violence, M/M, No Beta, Nothing Really Happens Here, Pre-Slash, Season/Series 04, The Author Regrets Nothing, but it's brocest so the rating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:27:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28333092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evenseven/pseuds/Evenseven
Summary: "Will you miss me?"
Relationships: Josto Fadda/Gaetano Fadda
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	No Explanation for Separation

**Author's Note:**

> _There's no explanation for separation  
>  So we don't_  
> 
> 
> \- [Shakespeare & Heartbreak](https://youtu.be/rz91Yt4L86Y) by Jesper Muck

“Will you miss me?”

Eyes flickered, innocently big yet deep as the radiant obsidians, absorbing the darkness that a normal child of his age should’ve never known. Josto blinked at the ceiling a few times, glancing at that pair of eyes that invaded his perfect vision of the high ceiling of their house. A faint trait of Italian speaking floated through the un-shut door, reminding Josto he was still lying on the luxurious couch in their living room, eyes fixed upon the high wall for way too long.

It’s not even midday and he was already drunk.

“And what the fuck does that supposed to mean?” Slightly annoyed, he lifted himself up on the soft couch and tried to push Gaetano’s face away with one hand. To his surprise, Gaetano easily seized his wrist with strong, burning fingers, maybe too strong to his liking. He didn’t break the eye contact, an intense gaze waiting for his answer. 

His baby brother, this concept was still oddly new to him, was merely eleven years of age. Yet, he grew up so rapidly and fiercely to a bulk, almost reaching his own height and seemly double his muscles. He had heard whispers on the street when they walked around town in Saturday afternoon, that Gaetano looked like his big brother. This kind of comments made him extremely irritated at first, and then he learned to keep his calm. Or, he almost did.

Gaetano knew nothing about the cruelty of his world, he only pretended to apprehend. A mere child, demonstrated a forged mastery through physical strength and dominating presence. For him, no argument was worthy for such a plain child’s play.

He was the only young Fadda who understood the coldness in one’s blood, and he learned it through alien household, burning gun smokes, and Irish whiskey. There was no better way to acquire the knowledge that, blood-bond was not a man’s last hope, only survival was.

“What did you do this time?” Josto crooked his head, frowned as he retrieved his hand, “Is Papà really mad?”

The same burning never faded in those dark eyes, like the time he came back from a business dine out with Papà, only to find an angry Gaetano with bleeding knuckles. He had asked his baby brother the same question, and Gaetano had refused to answer. Some fuss at school, that he heard from one of their family drivers, and Gaetano responded mocking with violence. The other kids would never forget his name, so was he told.

This time, though, Gaetano offered a “tsk” as the answer, but it was not good enough. Sensing his irritation, Gaetano turned away from the couch, dropping his gaze and taking heavy steps to the golden window frame, his voice was peculiarly tranquil. “Will you miss me if Papà send me away?”

Why would Papà send you away? And where are you off to?

He didn’t ask, but fixing his eyes on Gaetano’s profile. His features were still immature and youthful, vigorous in a way, yet already tinted with rage and wildness. He gazed afar, far beyond the artificially cultured fir bushes in their backyard garden and the metal grey of Kansas’s clouds.

He was here, present and vivid; he was also distant, sipping his cigarette in some faraway land, breathing the blood and loneliness in the deepest of night.

Did he really want this baby brother in his life? Would he feel a tingle of sorrow when he’s gone?

He inhaled, exhaled, deeply and repeatedly. He stared at his brother’s profile, though naive and aggressive he was, the black fans of eyelash barely quiver. Josto could feel the liquor still blazing at the back of his throat, that’s got to be the reason why he found his voice so full of hurt and hoarseness.

“No.” He said, pouring himself another glass of white vine and shutting his eyes.

*

No word was spoken to him, not even gossip on the street. Josto hated this feeling of being ruled out deliberately, he was the first born, _porca puttana_ , he was the future boss. And yet, Papà decided that he wasn’t grown-up enough to at least know what exactly happened to his baby brother, fuck, it was his _brother_. He was furious, but he dared not to ask.

_È mio fratello unico…_

But then, life went on. Gaetano’s name became half a taboo, he heard it only sometimes in his Mama’s late night weeps. A letter or two came, sealed with golden wax and laid still on his Papà’s desk. He saw the stamp marks, it’s from Italy. He dared not to ask.

And then the war came. Nasty things happened in Sardinia, _Camicia Nera_ , the lost Fadda, half of the old clan residence was destroyed. Papà was cold, but Josto was almost sure his father would take care of his son, one way or another. So he wasn’t worried, not slightly that he could admit to himself. After the war, he dared not to ask.

The grey in Kansas’s sky never changed, only to be splashed with vicious crimson from time to time. He had grown, acted with more reasons and less intoxication, and took over some family business, ignoring the faint distrust in his father’s eyes.

Remarks came back a dozen years later, that the clan was rebuilt over the sea. They were powerful and prestigious once, and now the glory of old times was rebuilt with money and blood, in the hands of a hazily familiar name, Gaetano Fadda. Some more letters came, long after the previous one. The wax seal remained unchanged, the envelopes were made of fine kraft and golden glitters, silently evinced the thriving of the Faddas overseas. Papà seemed pleased, even mentioned at dinner one time that Gaetano was leading the clan back home, that his baby brother had grown into a savage and splendid solider. Josto took a sip from the wine glass, blinking at the wet beam on the transparent wall. He thought America was home, but he dared not to ask.

*

“Did you miss me?”

His voice had changed so much, and his features, his build, no longer the arrogant and naive baby brother he could recognized, yet familiar enough to be the Gaetano that creeped into his dreams once in a while.

Gaetano was coming to the States for a family reunion, only to arrive at a funeral. He stood by the window, eyes glowed in the dark and pierced the smoke rings, observing the room once more before advanced at Josto, invading and belligerent. The spark inside those obsidians emitted, not quite the same haughty as years ago, but darker, gloomy and vicious. Like a lost soul trapped in a reborn vassal, no means to display emotions other than brutality.

It was bizarre, being acquainted with someone he knew from a half a lifetime ago. This was his _fratello…_ and a threatening stranger, too. 

Gaetano was there again, looking through the shiny window to gaze afar into the grey sky of Kansas City. Heavy breathing, muscular profile, eyelids rarely flicker, like a wild animal peering through its cage, ready to tear the world down with its bare claws. Here he was, standing in front of Josto, after all these years, vivid and distant at the same time.

Josto kept his silence, eyes red-rimmed for the tears he shed with his heart-broken Mama and sister, yet tranquil enough to be called “boss”. A tremor ran down his spine, yet it was not of fear of rage, but of unknown expectation of a loose cannon.

Calamita wanted to say something, maybe another pathetic attempt to ease the tension inside the room, but he gave a wave of hand to mute his man.

“No.” He said, eyes fixed on the Fadda much taller and stronger than himself.

Gaetano turned around, catching his eyes with a powerful presence. He smiled, just little, the corner of his lips curved slightly up like he always did as a kid.

“ _Ma so che ti sono mancato._ ” He breathed, arms around his shoulders and tugged him into an almost amiable embrace, and all he could sense was the scent of oak and musk on Gaetano’s neck. “J, ” he said, “I know you more than anyone, even Papà.”

He decided he hate Gaetano from that moment on, because claiming to “know him” was much worse than saying “you’re weak,” or “I miss you,” or “we are brothers.”

Because Gaetano was right, and he never felt so exposed in his life.

Rage ran through his spine to his brain, a moment of weakness was never supposed to be discovered by anyone, especially not by Gaetano.

“No.” He said it again, more to himself than to Gaetano while struggling to escape the warmth of his brother’s embrace.

Josto tramped away to the balcony, catching a final glance of Gaetano’s widened smile. He hated him, hated his name, hated his stupid size, hated his hoarse voice and radiant eyes, just like he hated the grey in the sky, the smoke of gun-powder that kept crawling into his eyes, the fading scent of oak and musk that he knew would haunt him in the deepest night.

**Author's Note:**

> È mio fratello unico. - He is my only brother.  
> Ma so che ti sono mancato. - But I know that you missed me.
> 
> -  
> I mean, I really don't regret anything. Been wanted to write about this brocest since forever...and maybe I'd write some more? _(or not.)_


End file.
